


Rebirth.

by YurikoSPN



Series: It's all about Supernatural! [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YurikoSPN/pseuds/YurikoSPN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader is the stereotypical Angel Warrior: all work, no fun, even less sense of humor; at least until she meets a beautiful cinnamon roll named Sam Winchester that teaches her there is so much more to the world than living by Heaven’s book.</p>
<p>This series will be based on the following imagine by Supernatural Imagines: <a href="http://supernaturalimagine.tumblr.com/post/136122683466/anon">“Imagine being assigned to Sam as his Guardian Angel and falling in love with him.”</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rebirth.

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This chapter contains swearing, a temporary male vessel for the Reader and graphic descriptions of gore and torture. You’ve been warned, but if you’re a Supernatural fan, you’re probably used to it already.
> 
> Feedback is, as always, much loved and appreciated!
> 
> My tumblr: [YurikoSPN](http://yurikospn.tumblr.com)

Wounded flesh pulses beneath your fingertips, reeky and slick to the touch. The interrogated leader, after hours on end of inflicted injuries and persistent questioning, is still as alive as can be, although he hardly tries to avoid your blows anymore.

 

**“Where is he?”**

A pair of ebony eyes glare up at you in virtual defiance, the demon’s aura standing tall and proud, much to contrast the current woeful state of his vessel. His mouth stretches into a grin of humorless amusement as copious amounts of blood cascade down his chin, coating the dirty concrete down below in a tapestry of vivid cinnabar.

 

_“No offense, but…,”_ he gurgles and spits a loose tooth on the ground, powerless against your peers’ hold keeping him still from both sides, _“just between us? Lucifer could do better and he’s **still** locked in his fuckin’ cage.”_

 

The mockery earns him a punch square in the nose, fueled by your anger alone. Something in his face cracks with a gut-twisting noise and he lets out a pained yelp before his head falls down, only to be raised again by your tight grip in his hair.

 

“None taken,” your answer is strained, nails sinking deep into his scalp, “I’ll give you one last chance to have a painless death, scoundrel,” the tip of your angel blade rests at the hollow of his neck, your gravelly tone a clear sign you are getting tired of playing a part in his stupid games, **_“Where is your leader and what did he do to Samandriel?”_**

****

“…Ugh, you could’ve _at least…_ bought me dinner first, if you wanted to fuck me up this much,” he slurs as blood drips from his now crooked nose, his gaze wandering groggily in your overall direction, studying your features past the fissures in his broken mind.

 

Licking the redness off his lips, he vaguely marvels at your temporary vessel’s chiseled features, broad shoulders and corded muscles, but mostly at how your essence manages to coruscate beyond all that, even in the eyes of a carnal being like himself.

 

As an Angel of the Lord, your presence is a force of nature in itself: thunderous and unforgiving, as alike as your soldier nature. And the demon seems to think just as much, judging by how his confidence falters for a minute upon meeting the celestial blue glow in your eyes.

 

He may be refractory, but he doesn’t seem to be foolish; and all it takes is one look to know the caliber of your grace is not a force to be taken for granted.

 

Still, in an attempt to overcompensate for his blatant helplessness, he spurts a mouthful of blood straight to your face, baring his teeth and finally revealing the true animalistic traits of his kind.

 

Okay, maybe there’s a little bit _less_ of carefully planning on his part than you had anticipated.

 

“You flappy birds are dumber than I thought! You want _me_ to turn **him** in of all demons? You gotta be shittin’ me,” he rolls his eyes – or at least you think he does, considering how they’re drowning in darkness and whatnot –, but the shiver that quakes his body at the mere remembrance of the King of Hell’s torture skills doesn’t bypass your keen sight unnoticed.

 

Crowley must be dangerous to be this feared, very much so.

“I’d rather die a hundred times than face his wrath for a single day, jackass. You don’t scare me!”

 

Your jaw stiffens at the insult, but before you can give him another taste of what God’s army is capable of, one of the angels in your garrison approaches you in a hushed tone and holds you by the elbow bend, her right hand cupping the shell of your ear to prevent the conversation from falling into prying eyes.

 

_“Captain, she wants to see you immediately,”_ the angel, Hamael, whispers, sparing the wicked soul under your scrutiny little else than a sideways glance, _“said it’s a matter of utmost importance that requires your presence and your presence **only**.”_

You heave a beaten sigh while cleaning your face with the sleeve of your suit jacket, and it seems to somewhat lessen the tension burdening your shoulders, but not the sorrow in your consciousness. The ambush was a waste of time, Samandriel’s whereabouts are still unknown, and with each passing day, the chances to find him alive grow exponentially thinner.

 

Nonetheless, the vow you made to yourself keeps you moving past all possible adversities. You **won’t** end this with an unaccomplished mission. Not while you’re the Captain of this garrison.

 

Out of frustration, you shove the entire length of your blade down the demon’s windpipe, watching him choke and wiggle in your comrades’ unwavering grip, imploding in beams of hot ember and gold and leaving behind the lifeless vessel to hang limply in your hands.

 

Deep down, sacrificing a human to exterminate evil leaves a sour aftertaste in your mouth, as if your subconscious knows it’s an unforgivable violation to the rules that justify your existence in the first place.

 

_You were born to protect humanity, after all._

However, as quickly as it arises, the thought dissipates in-between loops of internal self-assurances. – _‘This is for Heaven’s sake.’_ – _‘I’m doing what’s best for the perpetuation of mankind.’_ – _‘This is what Father would’ve wanted us to do in order to protect His most beloved creation.’_

_‘…I’m doing what’s **right.’**_

****

Or so is your excuse to cope with the heaviness of contradiction.

 

“Very well,” with a nod of yours, the two angels holding the demon release the corpse aside, all traces of blood and sweat disappearing from your clothes in the span of a finger snap, “Kill the others. We no longer have use for them.”

 

The order is met with a choired _‘Yes, Captain!’_ , a show of fireworks made of demons’ dying souls illuminating the back of your vessel’s expensive suit as you depart back to Heaven, ignoring the slaughter whilst wondering what could be so important to postpone Samandriel’s rescue mission.

 

It seems there are still bigger pieces on the chessboard to be played.


End file.
